


Microscopic

by wordybirdy



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Gen, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-09
Updated: 2012-04-09
Packaged: 2017-11-03 08:28:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/379361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wordybirdy/pseuds/wordybirdy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Holmes is having trouble with his newsprint. Watson thinks he knows the reason why. Convincing his friend is quite another thing altogether.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Microscopic

Sherlock Holmes and I were each following our individual and serene pursuits within the sitting-room at 221B Baker Street, one exceptionally pleasant April morning. With the extraordinary mystery of the Truncated Turnip recently completed, my friend had turned his hand to tidying and pruning his historical stacks of newspapers; armfuls of which he had hauled through from the lumber room to sort amongst upon our hearth-rug. He sat there now, cross-legged in meditation, an old newspaper in his lap, hunched over it in a deep scrutiny.

“Watson,” said he, suddenly, “it is really too bad.”

I looked up at him from my notebook. “What is, my dear fellow?”

“Why, how small they make the newsprint these days. I can scarcely read this column unless I bring it up close in front of my face. Everything is microscopic. How do they expect anyone to decipher it?”

I shrugged. “It never bothered you particularly before, Holmes. Perhaps your eyes are over-tired from examining so much of it. You should be throwing some of these papers out rather than reading them all again.”

My friend stood, clutching one of his papers. He stamped over to my chair and thrust the news-sheet in front of my face.

“Look at it,” said he, “and tell me that a gnat would not also have requirement of a magnifying lens.”

I looked.

“It is not so very small,” I said. “Perhaps a little smudged from age, but quite legible nonetheless.”

Holmes snorted. “You are just saying that to vex me,” said he. He threw the paper over his shoulder in pique, where it landed splayed out in distress across the other teetering piles. He made for his desk in the corner, thudding into a footstool en route. Displacing a stack of medical journals upon a side table, sending them hither and thither, my friend deposited himself heavily in his chair and frowned down at his foot.

“Whatever are you doing?” I asked. “You have been careening into things all week.” I looked at him now more closely, the faint dawning of realisation nudging at my thoughts. “Holmes,” I said, “when did you last visit an optician?”

He scowled at me briefly before returning his attention to his shoe.

“I cannot remember,” said he. “But what does that have to do with anything?”

“Very little,” I replied with an eye-roll, “apart from the somewhat obvious fact that you are complaining about microscopic newsprint and banging into all of our furniture. I might hazard a guess that you are in need of some spectacles, my dear fellow.”

Holmes stared at me in horror.

“ _No_ ,” he said. “No, no, no.”

“No?”

“No!”

“You believe that you do not need them?”

He moistened his right index finger and rubbed agitatedly at the scuff on his beleaguered shoe. Several moments passed before he formulated a response.

“I do not think that they would become me,” he said, eventually, with effort.

I chuckled. “Your vanity is clouding your common sense,” I said.

The shoe-rubbing increased in tempo, accompanied now by an offended huffing.

“I would mislay them, or sit on them, or someone might sell them to a pawnbroker's by mistake, or --”

“Why on earth should anyone take your spectacles to sell them to a pawnbroker?” I wondered aloud.

He shrugged.

I had an idea. I took a piece of foolscap paper and a pen, and drew a few lines of random capital letters in decreasing sizes upon it. I stood a number of paces away from my friend and held the sheet of paper aloft.

“Look at this sheet, Holmes,” I instructed. “And read the letters out loud to me, beginning from the top row.”

Holmes squinted irritably. “Your spelling is atrocious, Watson,” said he. “I cannot read a word of what you have written.”

“No, Holmes,” I said, “these are individual _letters_ , not words. Read the letters to me.”

“Watson, I am very busy at the present moment. I have to go and put the... thing... on the... flangle.”

“You have to _what?_ Look, Holmes, this will only take a moment. Do humour me for once, please.”

“ _F_.”

“Very good. And below that?”

“... _D...A_.”

“Excellent, Holmes! Carry on.”

“I do not care for spectacles, Watson.”

“I know very well that you do not, Holmes. Please continue reading the letters.”

“... _T_...” He broke off then to mumble to himself. I strained my ears, but was unable to catch the particulars of his invective.

“Yes?” I said, encouragingly.

He leaned forward, blinking furiously. I took a step back.

“No cheating, Holmes. What comes after T?”

He flung up his hands. “Your pen evidently began to run out of ink after the T, Watson, for it is illegible to me. I am bored and I want a biscuit.” He turned around to snatch up a custard cream from the plate that Mrs. Hudson had thoughtfully provided. He chewed ruminatively. I went to sit beside him. I patted his hand.

“It is entirely possible that you have become a little short-sighted, Holmes,” I informed him kindly. “I do recommend a visit to the optician, where they will be able to advise you better and perhaps furnish you with a splendid pair of spectacles for your work.”

My friend blenched.

“ _Spectacles_ ,” he said, his lip curled up in an anguish.

“They offer some very pleasing designs these days,” I said. “Unless you would prefer a monocle?”

“Watson, do not be ridiculous,” said Holmes. “I would look utterly stupid with a monocle. I would look scarcely any better with a pair of spectacles. I think that my eyes are quite all right. Thank you all the same.”

“But --”

“They are quite all _right_ , Watson.”

“But you are unable to --”

He held up his hand toward me to stay my concerned protest. It seemed that his word was final upon the matter, for he took up his pocket lens and recommenced his study thusly. I wondered what his objection could be against the prospect other than a fret that such a construction might appear unsightly upon his regal bridge. We Watsons, though, are canny, and I began to put my mind to a solution to the problem. At breakfast the next morning as we ate our toast and honey, I pointed out an article in one of my weekly journals.

“My word, Holmes, see this photograph of Edmund Whitemamber! How far he has come on in his career. I can recall when he was but a young student scarcely out of medical school. He is looking very dignified these days. Hum! What excellent eye-wear he has! You know, my dear fellow, that such accoutrements do lend a gentleman an air of even greater intellect than he might already possess?”

Holmes regarded me with a tired expression. I fear that he saw through my foil immediately.

“Is that so,” said he, with a yawn. “How very superficial that anyone might think so.”

“Also, I believe that they are capable of enhancing one's features, and can make a handsome fellow even more dashing,” I elaborated, desperately. 

My friend narrowed one eye at me. It was a peculiar skill that he possessed more regularly accompanied by an inexorable arch of his brow. Aimed well, it could wither a lesser prepared soul.

“You are fibbing,” he said, although his tone was not as resolute as before.

“On the contrary. Even _more_ dashing,” I repeated. “Such that he might encourage a great many compliments, and considerable envy.” I turned over the pages of my journal and said no more upon the subject. I left it to simmer where it stood.

Holmes affected a reason to visit town that afternoon. He was gone for several hours, and upon his return he appeared almost anxious. He was clutching a brochure, which he now sat with by the fire and flicked through with close attention. At length he beckoned that I should join him.

“Which do you prefer,” said he, “this, or that, or the top ones here?”

He was pointing to the pages of a brochure for prescription spectacles, and several designs therein.

I concealed my smile. “I think that those --” and I pointed to a smart tortoiseshell pair “-- might suit you very well, Holmes.”

“Are you sure?” he asked. “You do not like the grey-rims?”

“Well, they would match the colour of your eyes,” I conceded. 

This appeared to please him, for he snapped the brochure shut in satisfaction.

“Just for reading,” said he, with a brisk nod.

“Of course, Holmes.”

“And for looking pretty,” he added.

“Oh, undoubtedly, my dear fellow.”

One must always take great pains to humour madmen.


End file.
